


Pygmalion, part II

by mistspinners



Category: Baccano!
Genre: F/M, i'm so tired of editing this working on this thing oh my god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 09:40:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistspinners/pseuds/mistspinners
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have all the time in the world, and he intends to use it well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pygmalion, part II

When he first meets Ennis – really meets her that is, not a chance bump-in in a crowd or a half-impulsive tackle intended to say her life, no, when he  _really_ meets her, looks her into her eyes (the loveliest shade of gold-brown-bronze he has ever seen) and hears her introduce herself, this pretty girl who has been deprived of so much of the world and human experience – Firo decides, immortality still new in his veins and several hundred years' worth of memories shifting through his consciousness as he takes her hand (soft, smooth as baby skin), that he is going to teach her  _everything_.

* * *

**storge (christmas)**

It's their first real Christmas together – Firo, Ennis, and Czes, their little family unit that wasn't – and Firo has a million plans already, lots for the best Christmas trees circled out and pounds of sugar cookies already ordered from the best bakeries in town –

"You know," Luck says, as Firo juggles glass ornaments and oversized bows, boxes of bon-bons and strings of candy-cane festooned ribbon, "you're a bit old for this, aren't you?"

"Nope!" Firo answers, grinning as he turns around, bits of tinsel in his hair.

Luck sighs at that, but there is a smile on his lips as he stands there, watching the haggard cashier sigh as one of the New York's deadliest gangsters rummages for change.

 

There are stockings and sugarplums, chocolates and candy canes – all the trappings of Christmas and some more, everything multiplied by twelve with the type of excess only running an illegal organization could bring. It is "fantastic!" (Firo's words, a pine needle on his nose); it is "real Christmas-y too, yeah?" (again, Firo's words); it is, by everyone else's estimation, completely and utterly  _ridiculous._

Randy and Pecho visit Firo's apartment one day, ostensibly out for a Christmas visit (more truthfully to tease Firo with potential presents for Ennis), and come out covered in sugar and flour, cinnamon and bits of raw ginger, the casualties of an overenthusiastic attempt at homemade gingerbread men. "The kid's lost it," Randy says at the Alveare, shaking his head over a cup of coffee as the patrons gather around him, "I mean, I know  _I've_ done stupid things for love, but  _this_ is something new. Firo," he declares, finishing his coffee and putting the mug down, "is doomed."

Sympathetic nods all around.

At the back of the store, Sena rolls her eyes from behind the counter, mutters something that vaguely sounds like, " _men."_

But in spite of Sena's disapproval, the conclusion rests, solidifies amidst time and bits of gossip happily regurgitated by Randy and Pecho – yes, sad to say, it was true: Firo Prochainezo, once formidable and respected Camorra leader, had gone screwy for love.

"Respected?" Sena snorts as she fries bacon, eggs, potatoes and sausage. "If the boy'd ever been respected, you wouldn't be talking about him like that right now."

"Ah, come on now, Sena," Randy says, leaning over the counter towards her, "don't be like that – we do 'spect Firo, well, 's much as you can with a kid that looks like that. But it's true, ya know – not his fault, doll, but the kid's going whacky. C'mon honey, you know it's true. Maiza says it, even. "

And indeed he had: Maiza, after much amused silences and discreet smiling as he had sat sipping his coffee and listened to the others gossip, had visited Firo the other week to find his protégée in the middle of arguing with the  _head of police_  about reducing crime rates in the cause of holiday spirit as Isaac, Miria, and a clearly exasperated Czes tied ribbons onto Christmas tree behind them, Isaac and Miria occasionally breaking into carol in the middle of the argument. And even Maiza was then forced to admit that Firo was acting oddly, that the boy that was like a brother to him might be overdoing it a little. He attributed it to this to things such as "an overabundance of holiday cheer," but everyone knewwhat Maiza meant beneath the fancy phrases, heard the scandalous truth behind the niceties.

"Well," Sena sniffs from behind the counter, wiping the inside of a coffee mug, " _I_ think it's sweet. All Firo's trying to do is make them feel welcome – god knows Ennis hasn't had a family before, it's no wonder he's trying so hard to make the girl feel like part of the family."

"But it's a little loony," Randy presses, "yeah?"

"Well," Sena is forced to admit, "yes, it is a  _bit_  ridiculous."

And that sealed it, made the conclusion waterproof and ironed steel onto its hull: without a doubt, Firo Prochainezo – poor, love-struck boy – had gone completely and utterly off his nuts.

(Here is the catch, though: Firo, for his part, hears all this, knows how ridiculous he looks and is acting – and chooses to ignore it.)

 

Because here is the thing, the bit the gathered patrons at The Alveare had gotten wrong in the retelling: yes, Firo might have quite obviously smitten been with Ennis, but instead of making him forgetful and stupid in the general manner of lovestruckness, it had made Firo – head-in-the-clouds, act-before-you-think, blissfully oblivious Firo – terribly, uncomfortably sane. And with love in veins and twenty people's whispering cynicism in his head, Firo sees the things his former blitheness had blinded him to – not everything, of course, for he is still too much foolishness and Firo for that – but everything when it comes to  _her_ , to Ennis.

And he sees now, with fresh foresight and jarringly clear hindsight, the way  _they_ ( _they_  not Firo, they the gossiping continent meeting every night at the Alveare, they not linked by alchemy to and not madly in love with Ennis) see her, the girl-goddess haloed by perfection in his eyes – as something apart, something  _off._ Homunculus: from the Latin  _homo_  (and that is Szilard's doing too, the Latin and the sudden bits of knowledge tainted with blood). Man, yet not.

Oh, sure, they are kind enough – but he still senses it sometimes, their unease around her: the slight pauses, an odd tilt of the head before responding. It is Szilard's doing again, of course, the bastard who had brought Ennis into this world and then refused to give her the tools to understand it. Homunculus: literally, little man, but Firo thinks  _hollow_ man would work just as well, for that was what Szilard had done with them after all, created glass-flask children then taken all the important bits out.  _H_ o- _mo, h_ o- _llow._ Homunculus.

And he understands how the others might be wary of it, unsure of that  _void,_ that emptiness she had been born with – but he admires her, really, for it, Ennis who had been purposefully made so hollow and who had yet managed to fill that emptiness with so  _much_ , not just her intelligence and knowledge (of which he'll readily admit she has more than him), but also kindness and strength, the care with which she takes care of the stray cats on the street corners and the smiles she gives Czes – and really, when you thought about it, weren't they all like that, born empty, born hollow, little bits of nothing? Only while others had had parents or friends to guide them through, show them  _yes this_ or  _no that_ , Ennis had had nothing and no one, had been forced to figure her way through that odd ruckus they called life all by herself and all alone –

And well. He didn't want her to do that anyway, that was all. To be alone. And as Christmas drew nearer, he wanted to be make sure that she knew that, that – even if it was still rough around the edges, even if they were still a little awkward around her or her around them – she was part of  _them,_ and they would be there for her, loyal and loving and  _there_  above all else. That Ennis had (and he knows this is for the first time in her life because he has  _his_ memories, which means that he has  _hers,_  all the weeks of uncertainty and unsureness he dares not touch but feels nonetheless, a potent loneliness and left-aloneness lurking in dark alleys of memory) something solid finally to fall back on, people to love and love her, not for anything she had done, any forced fidelity or favors supposedly owed, but for reason sheer reason that she was a part of  _them_ now and she had  _them_ now, a connection stronger than any blood or shared biology – a word based on an ideal, a bond stronger than any tricks of alchemy. Afamily.

And, well. If he looked ridiculous doing it, if he made a few people laugh while trying to hang too many Christmas ornaments or burnt a few batches of cookies in the spirit of Christmas cheer, Firo didn't mind too much – not, at least, if Ennis was laughing, too.

* * *

**phileo (chess)**

"Really, Firo?" Czes snorts when Firo takes out the polished wooden board. " _Chess?"_

"Yeah?" Firo asks, looking over at the boy as he sets the board up, moves the tiny pieces into place. "What's wrong with chess?"

"Nothing," Czes says, shrugging innocently as he turns away, "except for the fact that Ennis is going to wipe the table with you."

"Hey –!" Firo protests, turning around, but Czes is already gone, fled to the kitchen or Maiza before Firo could say anything in response.

Which, to be honest, is fine with Firo; Czes is normally so serious, it's a treat to see him in high enough spirits to crack a joke, even if it's at Firo's expense. Although, Firo notes, looking at the neat array of black and white pieces, he probably  _was_ right – Ennis was probably going to beat him, and terribly.

And this, again, is fine with Firo – well, he thinks, mostly fine that is – who, wincing at just how  _true_ Czes's statement will probably turn out to be, nonetheless smiles as he calls Ennis in.

 

"And that's how the knights move?"

Firo nods, picking up his knight and demonstrating. "Like that, see?"

"Hm," Ennis says, brow furrowed as she studies the board. "So the bishop moves diagonally," she says, sliding it across the board, "and the rook moves from side to side, while the knight moves in L-shaped movements and can cross over other pieces, correct?"

"And the pawns can only go forward," Firo adds, "except when they cross the board, then you can make them whatever piece you want, and the queens go like this," picking up his, to demonstrate, "and the kings are the same, except just one step at a time. Think you got that?"

Ennis nods, face serious as she looks at Firo. "I believe so."

"Don't beat him too badly now, Ennis," Czes calls from his place at the table, straddling a kitchen chair turned backwards as he watches them.

"Hey now," Firo protests, mostly for show, but Ennis laughs at that, one of those rare, tinkling laughs that – even now, after twenty-five years of living with her – stops Firo's breath a little when he hears it.

"I don't think  _that_ ," she says, turning her radiant smile to Firo (and for a moment, he is certain that Mazia must have been wrong, that – between his inability to breathe and the frenzied  _thump-thump-thump_ in his chest – surely there were limits to immorality), "will be too much of a problem."

And it was strange, it really was – because Ennis plays well, but it is still her first time playing, and somehow, miraculously and almost by accident, Firo wins.

"I don't believe it," Czes says from the table, staring at the board. "Are you  _really_ sure he didn't cheat, Ennis?"

"Cheat?" Firo protests, turning around. "Czes, what kind of guy do you take me for? I don't  _cheat –_ well, 'cept maybe when I'm with Keith or Luck, but that doesn't really count –"

"Dumb luck, then," Czes says, shrugging as he turns back to the table. "Ennis'll win next time."

 

She doesn't win then either, but third time's a charm as Ennis checkmates his king soundly, edging it to the back of the board and trapping it between a pair of rooks.

"I  _knew_ it," Czes says triumphantly from next to Ennis. "I  _knew_ it was just bad luck you lost last time."

And perhaps it was, because it seems like Ennis has an unhealthy amount of bad luck in her life, what with Szilard and the homicidal homunculi that seemed to be constantly following afterwards, and Firo feels just a little bit guilty for contributing to it when he beats her the next evening.

In between the satisfaction of having Czes grudgingly hand him five dollars, that is.

And so it went.

At some point, Czes tells Randy and Pecho about it, and they come in, crowd into the small apartment to watch Firo and Ennis play; at some point, Maiza drops in as well, sits down next to Randy and Czes to observe their game; at some point, a pool is created, money exchanged, bets cast. Firo doesn't notice.

What he  _does_ notice, however, is Ennis's eyes, the gold-green flecks the sun catches as she leans over books detailing common strategies; the quick, definite way she picks up a piece, placing it down as definitely as though it were a real knight or queen; the way she  _plays,_ too, not aggressively like Firo does, but deliberately, letting Firo go after power pieces as she carefully devises pins and endgame traps; the little scrunch between her eyes that appears as she contemplates the pieces on the board, teeth slowly chewing on lower lip –

God, sometimes Firo isn't sure how he can play at all.

And when, after three weeks of playing and Ennis has pulled solidly ahead, Firo cannot help but laugh at it, pride not hurt in the slightest by how swiftly she manages to thrash him. Czes had been right, in the end; his prediction had just taken a little longer than expected to come true. But it is that extra time – those three weeks of late-night chess games and pouring over strategy books at the dinner table, the butterflies in Firo's stomach every time her hand brushed over his – that, Firo thinks, even as he dusts off the old backgammon set and sets the pieces in place, is the largest victory of all.

* * *

**eros (kissing)**

Isaac and Miria come over for New Year's, drop by one snowy evening in matching garish glitter to drink and party and watch the ball drop on New Year's Eve. And Firo is, of course, delighted to see them, delighted despite the inevitable property damage and problems because well, they're  _Isaac and Miria –_ who wouldn't be?

But there is one moment, as the fireworks explode in blue-gold-white against the inky sky and the gathering crowds cheer, one moment snagging in the night's glittering tapestry when Isaac – in the ephemeral excitement of the New Year and the perpetual excitement of being Isaac – leans over, and kisses Ennis on the cheek.

It is just a moment, a twinkling half-second lost in the rest of the starry snowy New Year night's reverie – but for a moment, Ennis blushes. And Firo, Firo standing there and watching, feels something like alarm, feels something like fear rise within him.

 

It wasn't, after all, as if Firo hadn't thought about it before: fifty years of unrequited love, and you're bound to think about it, if in the end it was  _really you_ in the end, some fault or flaw of  _yours_  that was the problem. He'd had time to think about it, after all, fifty years of time with all the shifting voices in his head clamoring to chime in, add their bit or put in their take on why it wouldn't work, why they weren't fit for each other and how she would be happier with someone else – but for fifty years, those had all been  _what-if,_ maybes unsupported by either what he saw in Ennis's actions or the moods he felt through their involuntarily link (though really, it had been long enough that there was hardly a difference between the two).

Now, though. Now, after that one chance glance in firework light, everything had changed, everything had shifted –

It was hardly as if Firo was truly worried about Isaac falling for Ennis, either – even if Isaac hadn't had a perfect match in Miria, there was still the fact that he was, well, Isaac, so much flighty emotion and madcap impulses that a kiss from him could hardly mean anything. No, whatworried Firo was Ennis's response – the widening of her eyes, the faint blush that had, for just a fraction of a second, colored her cheeks such a lovely shade of pink –

How long had it lasted? Ten, five seconds? In his memory, the moment replays a million times, five seconds stretching into a million hours and scenarios: Isaac kissing Ennis under fireworks, Ennis kissing Isaac kissing under the moonlight, Ennis kissing some unknown man in the middle of a crowded street as Firo watches on –

He tries not to let that bother him, the idea of Ennis kissing someone else – (it was her life, after all, he had no claim to it), and yet –

And yet, and yet, and yet.

And yet, like some malicious broken record or like the whispering litany in his head, it refuses to leave, it continues to play, over and over and over and –

 

And it's Claire and Chane's golden anniversary, and they are all invited: the Gandors naturally, but also all the old families – the Runoratas, the Boccanos, the Colombos, all the old allies and the old crowd – and so, naturally, the Martillos.

It was always an odd event for the immortals, seeing their mortal friends age around them, but that meant that it was all the more natural that they celebrate it in high style – for while the immortals might have had an infinite supply of it, their mortal friends were nonetheless reminder of the fact that life was short and thus to be valued. And so they find their best jewelry and gaudiest clothes, prepare for the evening's party with hushed whispers and high glee.

Firo, however, comes a few hours early: Claire was an old friend, after all, and he wanted to greet him properly, before the crush of guests left him only a perfunctory hello. It was a friendly gesture, that was all, had certainly nothing to with the way Ennis had started looking at him, brows slightly creased as though about to ask him something –

Certainly not, and even less to do with the suddenly wrenching in his stomach every time he forces himself to turn away.

"Firo!" Claire cries when he sees him, striding over and wrapping Firo in a bone-crushing hug. "God," he says when he lets Firo go, "are you getting shorter or something? How you doing, kiddo?"

"Better before," Firo says, wincing as he rubs his aching ribs, "damn, Claire, I think this time I might have really cracked a rib."

"Your fault for being so tiny," Claire says cheerfully, not missing a beat as he ruffles Firo's hair. "'Sides," Claire says, shrugging his shoulders in a dancing gesture, "they'll heal."

"It's good to see you, too," Firo says, rolling his eyes as he nonetheless smiles at his friend. And it was, really – there may have been more gray in Claire's hair than when Firo had last saw him, brilliant fiery red finally giving way to age, but he hadn't changed otherwise, was in all other aspects still the same loud-mouthed redhead Firo had played with as a kid. "And the same to you, Chane," he says, smiling at the woman who had silently appeared at Claire's side; Chane, silver-haired now but still as taciturn as ever, nods in response, smiling briefly at Firo before looking up at her husband.

"Ah, sorry about that," Claire says, glancing at Firo as he gently lays a hand on Chane's shoulder, "Chane says the photographer needs something, let me take care of it. Say hi to that girl of yours for me, okay?"

"She's not –" Firo begins, but Claire has already walked away by then, leaving the last word to fall onto silence, Firo's voice softer and suddenly sadder than he had expected – "mine."

 

They come several hours later, a crowd of black-suited men and bright-suited men: the Runoratas, the Colombos, the Lucheses, all the old, proud families come to strut in their faded jewels and gaudy glory. The Gandor brothers and the Martillos are among them, unchanged faces in a sea of age and newness.

Ennis is with them, of course, and she is (of course) stunning.

Isaac and Miria have somehow managed to come by tickets, and they dance into the ballroom in a whirlwind of carnival masks and peacock feathers, but Firo's eyes cannot leave Ennis – Ennis, whose normally straight hair had been curled into soft ringlets that gleamed gold-red in the lamplight, softly brushing the shoulders which her strapless dress left bare, red strands gently touching pale, soft skin –

And then Ennis turns her head, a question starting in her eyes, and Firo forces himself to turn away.

It is a good party, all in all. The food is delicious, the conversations spirited, all the photographers on time and the musicians excellent – and, despite the high concentration of mafia men and grudges, no one gets shot. Firo thinks the last one might be mostly Claire's doing, Claire who is Vino who is Felix who is almost urban legend, made flesh now and not one bit less deadly at seventy, sitting and laughing at the front of the banquet table. But, on second thought, it might have been Chane as well – Chane, who may lost the color in her hair but who had aged well into aristocratic grace, a quiet figure whose dignified presence commanded respect almost as much as Claire's sharp-toothed legend did.

Really, Firo thinks as he watches them, they were a good couple: fifty years later, and they complemented each other more than even, tiny Chane fitting comfortably against Claire's large frame, [two pieces of a puzzle, of a soul fitting perfectly together] –

"Firo?" Ennis asks, blinking at him with confusion in her lovely eyes. "Is something wrong?"

"N-no," Firo says, suddenly aware that he had been staring at her "i – it's nothing. Nothing's wrong."

And, to keep himself from staring into her eyes, he turns away to look at Claire and Chane.

They are the head of the table, Chane laying her head on Claire's shoulder as he leans against her in response, murmuring softly as he runs fingers through her hair. There are wrinkles beginning to line around Claire's eyes, but he is smiling as he strokes Chane's hair, smiling as he places his head into the hollow between her neck, eyes older and younger and more content than Firo had ever seen them – and suddenly it is all too much, the room too warm, too crowded, and Firo cannot breathe, can hardly stay there any longer, especially not with Ennis right next to him –

"Firo?" Ennis asks again, voice slightly more concerned as she moves closer. "Are you s–"

"I have to go," Firo says, abruptly standing up, and – ignoring the stares, the hurt and unsure surprise on Ennis's face – pushes his chair in, all-but-sprints toward the exit.

 

_She wasn't his._

He tells himself that, back in the safety of his apartment, splashing water on his face as he reminds himself of it – that Ennis was her own person, owed him nothing and had a right to her own wishes, that she was not his property and he was not Szilard – but even as he reminds himself of that, the image of Ennis appears in his mind, blushing as Isaac kisses her, Isaac Luck Claire taking her in his arms and kissing kissing oh God  _kissing_  her –

 _And why couldn't they?_ Why couldn't she? Ennis was her own person; could do what she wanted and kiss whom she wanted, and he had no right to protest or be upset, because she wasn't his wasn't his wasn't  _his –_

Face dripping, he looks up in the mirror, takes a deep, long breath as he brushes the hair out of his face. His eyes are red and his hands, as they clutch the sides of the sink, are shaking.

Sighing, he sits down on the bed, running a towel over his face and arms. This wouldn't do, this simply wouldn't – it was Claire's anniversary, damn it, he should be there, getting drunk and celebrating with the rest of them, not  _here_ , barricaded in his apartment and sulking in his room. God, what kind of person was he to do that, what kind of a  _friend –_

A knock comes at the door, and Firo nearly jumps at it. When had somebody come in, when had the front door opened, and why hadn't he heard –

"Firo?" and oh God, it's Ennis's voice, Ennis asking, her voice soft, concerned outside the door, "are you in there?"

"Just a moment!" Firo calls, desperately hoping his voice doesn't quaver as he says it, because fuck, fuck, Ennis doesn't need to see him like that, can't see him like this, "I'll be out in a bit –"

"Firo?" she calls again, and this time the worry is palatable in her voice, no longer some under-the-surface hint but naked and clear. "Is something the matter?"

"No," Firo says, but it is such a bad lieEnnis would see through it even if they were not what they were, mentally linked by a mistake of alchemy and wine, her thoughts his and his thoughts hers – and he can feel her worry already, a cloudy concern he tries to push away even as pushes the tears away – "no, Ennis, it's alright, I'm fine –"  
The door opens.

Ennis stands in the doorway, still in the black dress and shoes she had worn to the hotel, long lashes blinking slowly in the dim light, mouth open slightly in surprise and so very veryterribly kissable –

Firo closes his eyes and forces himself to count one, two, three to stop the urge to rush over and kiss her, right then and right there.

When he opens them again, Ennis is inside, has already quietly closed the door and left her shoes outside.

"Firo," she says, slowly walking over and sitting next to him (and oh god it's too close too much, she's too close, hair almost brushing against his skin and her skin almost touching his, the sound of her breathing nearly stopping his and the smell of her lotion burning his nose), "what's wrong?"

(he could hardly breathe, and there was a hole in his chest where his heart should have been, so raw and bloody and fucking  _painful_ he was sure it was already visible, bleeding dripping blood onto the carpet)

"Nothing," Firo says, forcing himself to smile, "nothing's wr –"

"Firo," Ennis says, and he falls silent, " _please_."

Firo looks away, says nothing.

"Is this about the anniversary?" Ennis asks quietly, gently moving (dizzyingly, terrifyingly) closer. "Or is this about...us?"

Firo stops breathing.

(She intoxicated him. It was terrible and cliché but yet oh so so true – stronger than any liquor, sweeter than any honeyed wine, she intoxicated him, every wave of her hair, every turn of her head or slow smile – he could get drunk off just her, her eyes her smile the sweet sweet scent of her hair –

But he was not Szilard, and he would not do it, would make no claims to her soul. She was not his. She was not his, and it  _hurt_ , a physical choking, a visceral, howling pain –)

"You know," Ennis says, staring at the ground, "they used to tease me, all those years, Isaac and Miria and everyone at the Alveare. And the oddest thing was," she says, fingers playing with the edges of the blanket, "I knew what they were talking about; intellectually, I understood how it all worked, the mechanics and chemistry of neurons resulted in it – but, instead I never understood  _it_."

Firo bites his lip, fights back the (irrational, rational) urge to apologize, say  _I'm sorry, I'm sorry_  –

"And I thought," she continues, "it would be horrible, wouldn't it? If there was something you wanted, something you needed more than anything that only I could give you but wasn't able to – well, that would be terrible. You were my friend, after all, and you'd given me so much," she says, smiling at the beige carpet, fingers still woven in cotton sheets, "and after all that, if there was something, anything I could give you in return, I would have."

"You don't have to give me any –"

"No," she says, raising her head slowly, "but I  _want_  to. Firo," she says, and this time the full force of her smile is on him, Firo's heart stopping as she leans forward and places one hand over his, "it's okay. I think I understand, now."

And, as Firo sits frozen there, Ennis leans in and gently kisses him.

At first, Firo does not know how to respond, because this was not how it was supposed to happen, not the way the cards were supposed to have fallen – because he had not expected, had been ready instead to guide her oh so softly and oh so gently through it all, show her every facet of the brave new world that Szilard had kept so long from her –

But Firo doesn't mind, not one bit, as he melts into the kiss he'd been waiting fifty years for.

* * *

**apage (forever)**

He doesn't know when it really sinks in, the fact of  _forever_. Perhaps it is at the chapel, when Ennis's eyes meet his, face shaded by a veil of white but eyes bright and smile gently shining underneath; or maybe that day in Chicago, when a sudden storm hits and delays their plane by five hours, and, both exhausted, Ennis leans her head against his shoulder; or perhaps the first bright morning of that disastrous honeymoon, when Ennis (eyes bright, smiling a smile that, even after twenty years of marriage and fifty more of knowing her, cannot fail to take Firo's breath away) walks up, and they walk inside the boat together, arms fitting together as snugly as though they had been made for each other – perhaps it is then, or perhaps it is one of the other many moments in their immortal lives and marriage, but sometime along the line, Firo realizes what he perhaps had known since that first moment, that first glancing meeting and exchange of words before even their real meeting ( _"thank you for your concern"),_ that he would do anything for her, would give everything for her, this beautiful, kind, wonderful woman who was somehow, miraculously,  _his_  – that, immortal as he was, Firo knows he would die for her if he could –

Until then, however, he will have to settle for loving her, if not until death do us part, then forever, he supposes.

_(and forever's not so long when her hand is in his, and they still have so much to teach each other)_


End file.
